UC-NRLF 


/  nENKTS 

VAN  DYKE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

WILLARD  HIGLEY  DURHAM 

DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH 

I92I-I954 


THE  WHITE   BEES 


BT  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The    House    of    Rimmon.       Net 

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Music,    and   Other   Poems.      Net 

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The  Toiling  of  Felix,  and  Other 
Poems.     $1.00. 

The  Builders,  and  Other  Poems. 

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HE  WHITE 
BEES  ft  ft 
AND  OTHER 
POEMS  ft  BY 
HENRY 
VANDYKE 


Charles  Scribncrs  Sons 
NewYork:  >VC>V1  X. 


Copyright,  1909,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  November,  1909 


GIFT 


V1+8 
to  lit 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE    WHITE    BEES  3 

NEW    YEAR'S    EVE  15 

SONGS    FOR    AMERICA 

Sea-Gulls  of  Manhattan  23 

Urbs  Coronata  25 
America 

Doors  of  Daring  28 

A  Home  Song  29 

A  Noon  Song  3° 

An  American  in  Europe  32 

The  Ancestral  Dwellings  34 

Francis  Makemie  37 

National  Monuments  38 

IN    PRAISE    OF    POETS 

Mother  Earth  41 

Milton:   Three  Sonnets  43 

Wordsworth  46 

Keats  47 

Shelley  48 

Robert  Browning  49 

Longfellow  5° 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  54 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  57 
v 

397 


Page 

LYRICS,  DRAMATIC  AND  PERSONAL 

Late  Spring  61 

Nepenthe  65 

Hesper  67 

Arrival  68 

Departure  70 

The  Black  Birds  71 

Without  Disguise  74 

Gratitude  75 

Master  of  Music  77 

Stars  and  the  Soul  79 

To  Julia  Marlowe  81 

Pan  Learns  Music  82 

"Undine"  83 

Love  in  a  Look  84 

My  April  Lady  85 

A  Lover's  Envy  87 

The  Hermit  Thrush  88 

Fire-Fly  City  89 

The  Gentle  Traveller  91 

Sicily,  December,  1908  92 

The  Window  93 

Twilight  in  the  Alps  95 

Jeanne  D'Arc  96 

Hudson's  Last  Voyage  98 


vi 


THE  "WHITE,  BEES 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  WHITE  BEES 

i 

LEGEND 

TONG  ago  Apollo  called  to  Aristaeus,  youngest 

of  the  shepherds, 

Saying,  "  I  will  make  you  keeper  of  my  bees." 
Golden  were  the  hives,  and  golden  was  the  honey ; 

golden,  too,  the  music, 

Where  the  honey-makers  hummed  among  the 
trees. 

Happy  Aristaeus  loitered  in  the  garden,  wandered 

in  the  orchard, 

Careless  and  contented,  indolent  and  free; 
Lightly  took  his  labour,  lightly  took  his  pleasure, 

till  the  fated  moment 
When  across  his  pathway  came  Eurydice. 

Then  her  eyes  enkindled  burning  love  within  him ; 

drove  him  wild  with  longing, 
For  the  perfect   sweetness   of  her  flower-like 

face; 
Eagerly  he  followed,  while  she  fled  before  him, 

over  mead  and  mountain, 

On  through  field  and  forest,  in   a  breathless 
race. 


But  the  nymph,  in  flying,  trod  upon  a  serpent; 

like  a  dream  she  vanished; 
Pluto's  chariot  bore  her  down  among  the  dead ; 
Lonely  Aristaeus,  sadly  home  returning,  found  his 

garden  empty, 
All  the  hives  deserted,  all  the  music  fled. 

Mournfully  bewailing,  —  "  ah,  my  honey-makers, 

where  have  you  departed?"  — 
Far  and  wide  he  sought  them,  over  sea  and 

shore ; 
Foolish  is  the  tale  that  says  he  ever  found  them, 

brought  them  home  in  triumph,  — 
Joys  that  once  escape  us  fly  for  evermore. 

Yet   I   dream  that   somewhere,    clad   in   downy 

whiteness,  dwell  the  honey-makers, 
In  aerial  gardens  that  no  mortal  sees: 
And  at  times  returning,  lo,  they  flutter  round  us, 

gathering  mystic  harvest, — 
So  I  weave  the  legend  of  the  long-lost  bees. 


II 

THE  SWARMING   OF  THE   BEES 
I 

\Y7HO   can  tell  the  hiding  of  the  white  bees' 

nest? 
Who  can  trace  the  guiding  of  their  swift  home 

flight? 

Far  would  be  his  riding  on  a  life-long  quest: 
Surely   ere    it    ended    would   his    beard    grow 
white. 

Never  in  the  coming  of  the  rose-red  Spring, 

Never  in  the  passing  of  the  wine-red  Fall, 
May  you  hear  the  humming  of  the  white  bee's 

wing 

Murmur  o'er  the  meadow,  ere  the  night  bells 
call. 

Wait  till  winter  hardens  in  the  cold  grey  sky, 
Wait  till  leaves  are  fallen  and  the  brooks  all 

freeze, 
Then  above  the  gardens  where  the  dead  flowers 

He, 

Swarm  the  merry  millions  of  the  wild  white 
bees. 


II 

Out  of  the  high-built  airy  hive, 
Deep  in  the  clouds  that  veil  the  sun, 
Look  how  the  first  of  the  swarm  arrive; 
Timidly  venturing,  one  by  one, 
Down  through  the  tranquil  air, 
Wavering  here  and  there, 
Large,  and  lazy  in  flight,  — 
Caught  by  a  lift  of  the  breeze, 
Tangled  among  the  naked  trees,  — 
Dropping  then,  without  a  sound, 
Feather-white,  feather-light, 
To  their  rest  on  the  ground. 

Ill 

Thus  the  swarming  is  begun. 
Count  the  leaders,  every  one 
Perfect  as  a  perfect  star 
Till  the  slow  descent  is  done. 
Look  beyond  them,  see  how  far 
Down  the  vistas  dim  and  grey, 
Multitudes  are  on  the  way. 
Now  a  sudden  brightness 
Dawns  within  the  sombre  day, 
Over  fields  of  whiteness; 
And  the  sky  is  swiftly  alive 
With  the  flutter  and  the  flight 
Of  the  shimmering  bees,  that  pour 
From  the  hidden  door  of  the  hive 
Till  you  can  count  no  more. 


IV 

Now  on  the  branches  of  hemlock  and  pine 

Thickly  they  settle  and  cluster  and  swing, 

Bending  them  low ;   and  the  trellised  vine 

And  the  dark  elm-boughs  are  traced  with  a  line 

Of  beauty  wherever  the  white  bees  cling. 

Now  they  are  hiding  the  wrecks  of  the  flowers, 

Softly,  softly,  covering  all, 
Over  the  grave  of  the  summer  hours 

Spreading  a  silver  pall. 

Now  they  are  building  the  broad  roof  ledge, 
Into  a  cornice  smooth  and  fair, 
Moulding  the  terrace,  from  edge  to  edge, 
Into  the  sweep  of  a  marble  stair. 
Wonderful  workers,  swift  and  dumb, 
Numberless  myriads,  still  they  come, 
Thronging  ever  faster,  faster,  faster! 
Where  is  their  queen?    Who  is  their  master? 
The  gardens  are  faded,  the  fields  are  frore, — 
How  will  they  fare  in  a  world  so  bleak? 
Where  is  the  hidden  honey  they  seek? 
What  is  the  sweetness  they  toil  to  store 
In  the  desolate  day,  where  no  blossoms  gleam? 

Forget  fatness  and  a  dream  I 


But  now  the  fretful  wind  awakes; 
I  hear  him  girding  at  the  trees; 
He  strikes  the  bending  boughs,  and  shakes 
The  quiet  clusters  of  the  bees 
To  powdery  drift; 

He  tosses  them  away, 

He  drives  them  like  spray ; 
He  makes  them  veer  and  shift 

Around  his  blustering  path. 

In  clouds  blindly  whirling, 

In  rings  madly  swirling, 

Full  of  crazy  wrath, 
So  furious  and  fast  they  fly 
They  blur  the  earth  and  blot  the  sky 

In  wild,  white  mirk. 
They  fill  the  air  with  frozen  wings 
And  tiny,  angry,  icy  stings ; 
They  blind  the  eyes,  and  choke  the  breath, 
They  dance  a  maddening  dance  of  death 

Around  their  work, 
Sweeping  the  cover  from  the  hill, 
Heaping  the  hollows  deeper  still, 
Effacing  every  line  and  mark, 
And  swarming,  storming  in  the  dark 

Through  the  long  night; 
Until,  at  dawn,  the  wind  lies  down, 

Weary  of  fight. 

The  last  torn  cloud,  with  trailing  gown, 
Passes  the  open  gates  of  light; 
And  the  white  bees  are  lost  in  flight. 


VI 

Look  how  the  landscape  glitters  wide  and  still, 

Bright  with  a  pure  surprise! 
The  day  begins  with  joy,  and  all  past  ill, 

Buried  in  white  oblivion,  lies 
Beneath  the  snowdrifts  under  crystal  skies. 
New  hope,  new  love,  new  life,  new  cheer, 
Flow  in  the  sunrise  beam,  — 
The  gladness  of  Apollo  when  he  sees, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  wintry  year, 
The  honey-harvest  of  his  wild  white  bees, 

Forgetfulness  and  a  dream  I 


Ill 

LEGEND 

TISTEN,  my  beloved,  while  the  silver  morning, 

like  a  tranquil  vision, 
Fills  the  world  around  us  and  our  hearts  with 

peace; 
Quiet  is  the  close  of  Aristaeus'  legend,  happy  is 

the  ending  — 
Listen  while  I  tell  you  how  he  found  release. 

Many  months  he  wandered  far  away  in  sadness, 

desolately  thinking 

Only  of  the  vanished  joys  he  could  not  find; 
Till  the  great  Apollo,  pitying  his  shepherd,  loosed 

him  from  the  burden 
Of  a  dark,  reluctant,  backward-looking  mind. 

Then  he  saw  around  him  all  the  changeful  beauty 

of  the  changing  seasons, 
In  the  world-wide  regions  where  his  journey 

lay; 

Birds  that  sang  to  cheer  him,  flowers  that  bloomed 
beside  him,  stars  that  shone  to  guide  him,  — 
Traveller's  joy  was  plenty  all  along  the  way! 


10 


Everywhere   he   journeyed   strangers   made   him 

welcome,  listened  while  he  taught  them 
Secret  lore  of  field  and  forest  he  had  learned: 
How  to  train  the  vines  and  make  the  olives  fruit 
ful;   how  to  guard  the  sheepfolds; 
How  to  stay  the  fever  when  the  dog-star  burned. 

Friendliness  and  blessing  followed  in  his  foot 
steps;    richer  were  the  harvests, 
Happier  the  dwellings,  wheresoe'er  he  came; 
Little  children  loved  him,  and  he  left  behind  him, 

in  the  hour  of  parting, 
Memories  of  kindness  and  a  god-like  name. 

So    he    travelled    onward,    desolate   no    longer, 

patient   in   his   seeking, 

Reaping  all  the  wayside  comfort  of  his  quest; 
Till  at  last  in  Thracia,  high  upon  Mount  Haemus, 

far  from  human  dwelling, 
Weary  Aristeeus  laid  him  down  to  rest. 

Then  the  honey-makers,  clad  in  downy  whiteness, 

fluttered  soft  around  him, 
Wrapt   him  in  a  dreamful   slumber  pure  and 

deep. 
This   is  life,  beloved:    first  a   sheltered  garden, 

then  a  troubled  journey, 
Joy  and  pain  of  seeking, — and  at  last  we  sleep! 


ii 


NEW  YEAR'S   EVE 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 


HTHE  other  night  I  had  a  dream,  most  clear 

And  comforting,  complete 
In  every  line,  a  crystal  sphere, 
And  full  of  intimate  and  secret  cheer. 
Therefore  I  will  repeat 
That  vision,  dearest  heart,  to  you, 
As  of  a  thing  not  feigned,  but  very  true, 
Yes,  true  as  ever  in  my  life  befell; 
And  you,  perhaps,  can  tell 
Whether  my  dream  was  really  sad  or  sweet. 


II 

The  shadows  flecked  the  elm-embowered  street 

I  knew  so  well,  long,  long  ago ; 

And  on  the  pillared  porch  where  Marguerite 

Had  sat  with  me,  the  moonlight  lay  like  snow. 

But  she,  my  comrade  and  my  friend  of  youth, 

Most  gaily  wise, 

Most  innocently  loved, — 

She  of  the  blue-grey  eyes 

That  ever  smiled  and  ever  spoke  the  truth, — 

From  that  familiar  dwelling,  where  she  moved 

Like  mirth  incarnate  in  the  years  before, 

Had  gone  into  the  hidden  house  of  Death. 

I  thought  the  garden  wore 

White  mourning  for  her  blessed  innocence, 

And  the  syringa's  breath 

Came  from  the  corner  by  the  fence, 

Where  she  had  made  her  rustic  seat, 

With  fragrance  passionate,  intense, 

As  if  it  breathed  a  sigh  for  Marguerite. 

My  heart  was  heavy  with  a  sense 

Of  something  good  forever  gone.     I  sought 

Vainly  for  some  consoling  thought, 

Some  comfortable  word  that  I  could  say 

To  the  sad  father,  whom  I  visited  again 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  gone  away. 

The  bell  rang  shrill  and  lonely,  —  then 

The  door  was  opened,  and  I  sent  my  name 

To  him,  —  but  ah !  't  was  Marguerite  who  came ! 


16 


There  in  the  dear  old  dusky  room  she  stood 

Beneath  the  lamp,  just  as  she  used  to  stand, 

In  tender  mocking  mood. 

"  You  did  not  ask  for  me,"  she  said, 

"  And  so  I  will  not  let  you  take  my  hand ; 

"  But  I  must  hear  what  secret  talk  you  planned 

"  With  father.     Come,  my  friend,  be  good, 

"  And  tell  me  your  affairs  of  state : 

*'  Why  you  have  stayed  away  and  made  me  wait 

"  So  long.    Sit  down  beside  me  here,  — 

"  And,  do  you  know,  it  seemed  a  year 

"  Since  we  have  talked  together,  —  why  so  late?  " 

Amazed,  incredulous,  confused  with  joy 

I  hardly  dared  to  show, 

And  stammering  like  a  boy, 

I  took  the  place  she  showed  me  at  her  side; 

And  then  the  talk  flowed  on  with  brimming  tide 

Through  the  still  night, 

While  she  with  influence  light 

Controlled  it,  as  the  moon  the  flood. 

She  knew  where  I  had  been,  what  I  had  done, 

What  work  was  planned,  arid  what  begun ; 

My  troubles,  failures,  fears  she  understood, 

And  touched  them  with  a  heart  so  kind, 

That  every  care  was  melted  from  my  mind, 


And  every  hope  grew  bright, 

And  life  seemed  moving  on  to  happy  ends. 

(Ah,  what  self-beggared  fool  was  he 

That  said  a  woman  cannot  be 

The  very  best  of  friends?) 

Then  there  were  memories  of  old  times, 

Recalled  with  many  a  gentle  jest; 

And  at  the  last  she  brought  the  book  of  rhymes 

We  made  together,  trying  to  translate 

The  Songs  of  Heine  (hers  were  always  best). 

"  Now  come,"  she  said, 

"  To-night  we  will  collaborate 

"  Again ;    I  '11  put  you  to  the  test. 

"  Here  's  one  I  never  found  the  way  to  do,  — 

"  The  simplest  are  the  hardest  ones,  you  know,  — 

"  I  give  this  song  to  you." 

And  then  she  read: 

Mem  kind,  <wir  <waren  Kinder, 

Zivei  Kinder,  Jung  und  froh. 

******* 

But  all  the  while  a  silent  question  stirred 

Within  me,  though  I  dared  not  speak  the  word: 

"  Is  it  herself,  and  is  she  truly  here, 

"  And  was  I  dreaming  when  I  heard 

"  That  she  was  dead  last  year? 

"  Or  was  it  true,  and  is  she  but  a  shade 

"  Who  brings  a  fleeting  joy  to  eye  and  ear, 

"  Cold  though  so  kind,  and  will  she  gently  fade 

"  When  her  sweet  ghostly  part  is  played 

"And  the  light-curtain  falls  at  dawn  of  day?" 


18 


But  while  my  heart  was  troubled  by  this  fear 

So  deeply  that  I  could  not  speak  it  out, 

Lest  all  my  happiness  should  disappear, 

I  thought  me  of  a  cunning  way 

To  hide  the  question  and  dissolve  the  doubt. 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  now  your  hand, 

"  Dear  Marguerite,"  I  asked,  "  to  touch  and  hold, 

"  That  by  this  token  I  may  understand 

14  You  are  the  same  true  friend  you  were  of  old?  " 

She  answered  with  a  smile  so  bright  and  calm 

It  seemed  as  if  I  saw  new  stars  arise 

In  the  deep  heaven  of  her  eyes; 

And  smiling  so,  she  laid  her  palm 

In  mine.     Dear  God,  it  was  not  cold 

But  warm  with  vital  heat! 

"  You  live !  "  I  cried,  "  you  live,  dear  Marguerite  I " 

Then  I  awoke;    but  strangely  comforted, 

Although  I  knew  again  that  she  was  dead. 


Ill 

Yes,  there's  the  dream!     And  was  it  sweet  or 

sad? 

Dear  mistress  of  my  waking  and  my  sleep, 
Present  reward  of  all  my  heart's  desire, 
Watching  with  me  beside  the  winter  fire, 
Interpret  now  this  vision  that  I  had. 
But  while  you  read  the  meaning,  let  me  keep 
The  touch  of  you:   for  the  Old  Year  with  storm 
Is  passing  through  the  midnight,  and  doth  shake 
The  corners  of  the  house,  —  and  oh!    my  heart 

would  break 

Unless  both  dreaming  and  awake 
My  hand  could  feel  your  hand  was  warm,  warm, 

warm! 


20 


SONGS   FOR  AMERICA 


SEA-GULLS  OF  MANHATTAN 

CHILDREN  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Born  upon   some  lonely  island  shore 
Where  the  wrinkled  ripples  run  and  whisper, 

Where  the  crested  billows  plunge  and  roar; 
Long-winged,  tireless  roamers  and  adventurers, 

Fearless  breasters  of  the  wind  and  sea, 
In  the  far-off  solitary  places 

I  have  seen  you  floating  wild  and  free! 

Here  the  high-built  cities  rise  around  you; 

Here  the  cliffs  that  tower  east  and  west, 
Honeycombed  with  human  habitations, 

Have  no  hiding  for  the  sea-bird's  nest: 
Here  the  river  flows  begrimed  and  troubled; 

Here  the  hurrying,  panting  vessels  fume, 
Restless,  up  and  down  the  watery  highway, 

While  a  thousand  chimneys  vomit  gloom. 


Toil  and  tumult,  conflict  and  confusion, 

Clank  and  clamor  of  the  vast  machine 
Human  hands  have  built  for  human  bondage  — 

Yet  amid  it  all  you  float  serene; 
Circling,  soaring,  sailing,  swooping  lightly 

Down  to  glean  your  harvest  from  the  wave; 
In  your  heritage  of  air  and  water, 

You  have  kept  the  freedom  Nature  gave. 

Even  so  the  wild-woods  of  Manhattan 

Saw  your  wheeling  flocks  of  white  and  grey ; 
Even  so  you  fluttered,  followed,  floated, 

Round  the  Half-cMoon  creeping  up  the  bay; 
Even  so  your  voices  creaked  and  chattered, 

Laughing  shrilly  o'er  the  tidal  rips, 
While  your  black  and  beady  eyes  were  glistening 

Round  the  sullen  British  prison-ships. 

Children  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Fearless  floaters  'mid  the  double  blue, 
From  the  crowded  boats  that  cross  the  ferries 

Many  a  longing  heart  goes  out  to  you. 
Though  the  cities  climb  and  close  around  us, 

Something  tells  us  that  our  souls  are  free, 
While  the  sea-gulls  fly  above  the  harbor, 

While  the  river  flows  to  meet  the  sea! 


24 


URBS  CORONATA 

(Song  for  the  City  College  of  New  York) 

Q  YOUNGEST  of  the  giant  brood 

Of  cities  far-renowned; 
In  wealth  and  power  thou  hast  passed 

Thy  rivals  at  a  bound; 
And  now  thou  art  a  queen,  New  York; 

And  how  wilt  thou  be  crowned? 

"  Weave  me  no  palace-wreath  of  pride," 

The  royal  city  said; 
"  Nor  forge  an  iron  fortress-wall 

To  frown  upon  my  head; 
But  let  me  wear  a  diadem 

Of  Wisdom's  towers  instead." 

And  so  upon  her  island  height 
She  worked  her  will  forsooth, 

She  set  upon  her  rocky  brow 
A  citadel  of  Truth, 

A  house  of  Light,  a  home  of  Thought, 
A  shrine  of  noble  Youth. 


Stand  here,  ye  City  College  towers, 
And  look  both  up  and  down; 

Remember  all  who  wrought  for  you 
Within  the  toiling  town; 

Remember  all  they  thought  for  you, 

And  all  the  hopes  they  brought  for  you, 
And  be  the  City's  Crown. 


26 


AMERICA 

T   LOVE  thine  inland  seas, 
Thy  groves  of  giant  trees, 
Thy  rolling  plains ; 

Thy  rivers'  mighty  sweep, 

Thy  mystic  canyons  deep, 

Thy  mountains  wild  and  steep, 
All  thy  domains; 

Thy  silver  Eastern  strands, 
Thy  Golden  Gate  that  stands 

Wide  to  the  West ; 
Thy  flowery  Southland  fair, 
Thy  sweet  and  crystal  air,  — 
O  land  beyond  compare, 

Thee  I  love  best! 

Additional  verses  for  the  National  Hymn,  March,  1906. 


DOORS  OF  DARING 

HTHE  mountains  that  enfold  the  vale 

With  walls  of  granite,  steep  and  high, 
Invite  the  fearless  foot  to  scale 
Their  stairway  toward  the  sky. 

The  restless,  deep,  dividing  sea 

That  flows  and  foams  from  shore  to  shore, 
Calls  to  its  sunburned  chivalry, 

"  Push  out,  set  sail,  explore !  " 

And  all  the  bars  at  which  we  fret, 
That  seem  to  prison  and  control, 

Are  but  the  doors  of  daring,  set 
Ajar  before  the  soul. 

Say  not,  "  Too  poor,"  but  freely  give ; 

Sigh  not,  "  Too  weak,"  but  boldly  try. 
You  never  can  begin  to  live 

Until  you  dare  to  die. 


28 


A  HOME  SONG 

T  READ  within  a  poet's  book 

A  word  that  starred  the  page: 
"  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ! " 

Yes,  that  is  true;    and  something  more 
You  '11  find,  where'er  you  roam, 

That  marble  floors  and  gilded  walls 
Can  never  make  a  home. 

But  every  house  where  Love  abides, 

And  Friendship  is  a  guest, 
Is  surely  home,  and  home-sweet-home: 

For  there  the  heart  can  rest. 


29 


A  NOON  SONG 

HTHERE  are  songs  for  the  morning  and  songs 

for  the  night, 

For  sunrise  and  sunset,  the  stars  and  the  moon ; 
But  who  will  give  praise  to  the  fulness  of  light, 
And  sing  us  a  song  of  the  glory  of  noon? 
Oh,  the  high  noon,  and  the  clear  noon, 

The  noon  with  golden  crest; 
When  the  sky  burns,  and  the  sun  turns 
With  his  face  to  the  way  of  the  west! 

How  swiftly  he  rose  in  the  dawn  of  his  strength ; 

How  slowly  he  crept  as  the  morning  wore  by ; 

Ah,  steep  was  the  climbing  that  led  him  at  length 

To  the  height  of  his  throne  in  the  blue  summer 

sky. 
Oh,  the  long  toil,  and  the  slow  toil, 

The  toil  that  may  not  rest, 
Till  the  sun  looks  down  from  his  journey's 

crown, 
To  the  wonderful  way  of  the  west! 


Then  a  quietness  falls  over  meadow  and  hill, 

The  wings  of  the  wind  in  the  forest  are  furled; 
The  river  runs  softly,  the  birds  are  all  still, 
And  the  workers  are  resting  all  over  the  world. 
Oh,  the  good  hour,  and  the  kind  hour, 

The  hour  that  calms  the  breast! 
Little  inn  half-way  on  the  road  of  the  day, 
Where  it  follows  the  turn  to  the  west! 

There  's  a  plentiful  feast  in  the  maple-tree  shade, 

The  lilt  of  a  song  to  an  old-fashioned  tune ; 
The  talk  of  a  friend,  and  the  kiss  of  a  maid, 
To  sweeten  the  cup  that  we  drink  to  the  noon. 
Oh,  the  deep  noon,  and  the  full  noon, 

Of  all  the  day  the  best ! 
When  the  sky  burns,  and  the  sun  turns 
To  his  home  by  the  way  of  the  west ! 


AN  AMERICAN  IN  EUROPE 

fine  to  see  the  Old  World,  and  travel  up 
and  down 

Among  the  famous  palaces  and  cities  of  renown, 
To  admire  the  crumbly  castles  and  the  statues  of 

the  kings,  — 

But  now  I  think  I  Ve  had  enough  of  antiquated 
things. 

So  it 's  home  again,  and  home  again,  America  for 

me  I 
My  heart  is  turning  home  again  f  and  there  I  long  to 

he, 
In  the  land  of  youth  and  freedom  beyond  the  ocean 

bars, 
Where  the  air  is  full  of  sunlight  and  the  flag  is  full 

of  stars. 

Oh,  London  is  a  man's  town,  there  's  power  in 

the  air; 
And  Paris  is  a  woman's  town,  with  flowers  in 

her  hair; 
And  it 's  sweet  to  dream  in  Venice,  and  it 's  great 

to  study  Rome; 
But  when  it  comes  to  living  there  is  no  place  like 

home. 


I  like  the  German  fir-woods,  in  green  battalions 

drilled ; 
I   like   the  gardens   of   Versailles   with   flashing 

fountains  filled; 
But,  oh,  to  take  your  hand,  my  dear,  and  ramble 

for  a  day 
In  the  friendly  western  woodland  where  Nature 

has  her  way! 

I  know  that  Europe  's  wonderful,  yet  something 

seems  to  lack: 
The  Past  is  too  much  with  her,  and  the  people 

looking  back. 
But   the   glory   of   the   Present   is  to   make  the 

Future  free,  — 
We  love  our  land  for  what  she  is  and  what  she 

is  to  be. 

Oh,  it 's  home  again,  and  home  again,  America  for 

me! 
I  'want  a  ship  that 's  westward  hound  to  plough  the 

rolling  sea, 
To  the  blessed  Land  of  Room  Enough  beyond  the 

ocean  bars, 
Where  the  air  is  full  of  sunlight  and  the  flag  is  full 

of  stars. 


33 


THE  ANCESTRAL  DWELLINGS 


to  my  heart  are  the  ancestral  dwellings 
of  America, 
Dearer  than  if  they  were  haunted  by  ghosts  of 

royal  splendour; 
These  are  the  homes  that  were  built  by  the  brave 

beginners  of  a  nation, 

They  are  simple  enough  to  be  great,  and  full  of 
a  friendly  dignity. 

I  love  the  old  white  farmhouses  nestled  in  New 

England  valleys, 
Ample  and  long  and  low,  with  elm-trees  feather 

ing  over  them: 
Borders  of  box  in  the  yard,  and  lilacs,  and  old- 

fashioned  flowers, 
A  fan-light  above  the  door,  and  little  square  panes 

in  the  windows, 
The  wood-shed  piled  with  maple  and  birch  and 

hickory  ready  for  winter, 
The  gambrel-roof  with  its  garret  crowded  with 

household  relics,  — 
All  the  tokens  of  prudent  thrift  and  the  spirit  of 

self-reliance. 


34 


I  love  the  look  of  the  shingled  houses  that  front 

the  ocean; 
Their  backs  are  bowed,  and  their  lichened  sides 

are  weather-beaten; 
Soft  in  their  colour  as  grey  pearls,  they  are  full 

of  patience  and  courage. 
They  seem  to  grow  out  of  the  rocks,  there  is 

something  indomitable  about  them: 
Facing  the  briny  wind  in  a  lonely  land  they  stand 

undaunted, 
While    the    thin    blue    line    of    smoke    from   the 

square-built  chimney  rises, 
Telling  of  shelter  for  man,  with  room  for  a  hearth 

and  a  cradle. 

I  love  the  stately  southern  mansions  with  their 

tall  white  columns, 
They  look  through  avenues  of  trees,  over  fields 

where  the  cotton  is  growing; 
I  can  see  the  flutter  of  white  frocks  along  their 

shady  porches, 
Music  and  laughter  float  from  the  windows,  the 

yards  are  full  of  hounds  and  horses. 
They  have  all  ridden  away,  yet  the  houses  have 

not  forgotten, 
They  are  proud   of  their  name  and  place,   and 

their  doors  are  always  open, 
For  the  thing  they  remember  best  is  the  pride 

of  their  ancient  hospitality. 


35 


In  the  towns  I  love  the   discreet  and  tranquil 

Quaker  dwellings, 
With  their  demure  brick  faces  and  immaculate 

white-stone  doorsteps; 
And  the  gabled  houses  of  the  Dutch,  with  their 

high  stoops  and  iron  railings, 
(I  can  see  their  little  brass  knobs  shining  in  the 

morning  sunlight)  ; 
And  the  solid  houses  of  the  descendants  of  the 

Puritans, 
Fronting  the  street  with  their  narrow  doors  and 

dormer-windows ; 
And  the  triple-galleried,  many-pillared  mansions 

of  Charleston, 
Standing  sideways  in  their  gardens  full  of  roses 

and  magnolias. 

Yes,  they  are  all  dear  to  my  heart,  and  in  my 

eyes  they  are  beautiful; 
For  under  their  roofs  were  nourished  the  thoughts 

that  have  made  the  nation; 
The  glory  and  strength  of  America  came  from 

her  ancestral  dwellings. 


FRANCIS  MAKEMIE 

(Presbyter  of  Christ  in  America,  1683-1708) 

HTO  thee,  plain  hero  of  a  rugged  race, 

We  bring  the  meed  of  praise  too  long  delayed ! 
Thy  fearless  word  and  faithful  work  have  made 
For  God's  Republic  firmer  path  and  place 
In  this  New  World:    thou  hast  proclaimed  the 

grace 

And  power  of  Christ  in  many  a  forest  glade, 
Teaching  the  truth  that  leaves  men  unafraid 
Of  frowning  tyranny  or  death's  dark  face. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  how  much  we  owe  to  thee, 
Makemie,  and  to  labour  such  as  thine, 
For  all  that  makes  America  the  shrine 

Of  faith  untrammeled  and  of  conscience  free? 

Stand  here,  grey  stone,  and  consecrate  the  sod 

Where  rests  this  brave  Scotch-Irish  man  of  God! 


37 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS 


not  the  cost  of  honour  to  the  dead  ! 
The  tribute  that  a  mighty  nation  pays 
To  those  who  loved  her  well  in  former  days 
Means  more  than  gratitude  for  glories  fled; 
For  every  noble  man  that  she  hath  bred, 

Lives  in  the  bronze  and  marble  that  we  raise, 
Immortalized  by  art's  immortal  praise, 
To  lead  our  sons  as  he  our  fathers  led. 

These  monuments  of  manhood  strong  and  high 
Do  more  than  forts  or  battle-ships  to  keep 

Our  dear-bought  liberty.     They  fortify 
The  heart  of  youth  with  valour  wise  and  deep  ; 

They  build  eternal  bulwarks,  and  command 

Eternal  strength  to  guard  our  native  land. 


IN   PRAISE   OF  POETS 


MOTHER  EARTH 

TUT  OTHER  of  all  the  high-strung  poets  and 
singers  departed, 

Mother  of  all  the  grass  that  weaves  over  their 
graves  the  glory  of  the  field, 

Mother  of  all  the  manifold  forms  of  life,  deep- 
bosomed,  patient,  impassive, 

Silent  brooder  and  nurse  of  lyrical  joys  and  sor 
rows! 

Out  of  thee,  yea,  surely  out  of  the  fertile  depth 
below  thy  breast, 

Issued  in  some  strange  way,  thou  lying  motion 
less,  voiceless, 

All  these  songs  of  nature,  rhythmical,  passionate, 
yearning, 

Coming  in  music  from  earth,  but  not  unto  earth 
returning. 

Dust  are  the  blood-red  hearts  that  beat  in  time 

to  these  measures, 
Thou  hast  taken  them  back  to  thyself,  secretly, 

irresistibly 
Drawing  the  crimson  currents  of  life  down,  down, 

down 
Deep  into  thy  bosom  again,  as  a  river  is  lost  in 

the  sand. 


But  the  souls  of  the  singers  have  entered  into 

the  songs  that  revealed  them,  — 
Passionate   songs,    immortal    songs   of   joy    and 

grief  and  love  and  longing: 
Floating  from  heart  to  heart  of  thy  children,  they 

echo  above  thee: 
Do  they  not  utter  thy  heart,  the  voices  of  those 

that  love  thee? 

Long  hadst  thou  lain  like  a  queen  transformed  by 
some  old  enchantment 

Into  an  alien  shape,  mysterious,  beautiful,  speech 
less, 

Knowing  not  who  thou  wert,  till  the  touch  of  thy 
Lord  and  Lover 

Working  within  thee  awakened  the  man-child  to 
breathe  thy  secret. 

All  of  thy  flowers  and  birds  and  forests  and  flow 
ing  waters 

Are  but  enchanted  forms  to  embody  the  life  of 
the  spirit; 

Thou  thyself,  earth-mother,  in  mountain  and 
meadow  and  ocean, 

Holdest  the  poem  of  God,  eternal  thought  and 
emotion. 


42 


MILTON 

i 

T    OVER  of  beauty,  walking  on  the  height 
Of  pure  philosophy  and  tranquil  song; 
Born  to  behold  the  visions  that  belong 
To  those  who  dwell  in  melody  and  light; 
Milton,  thou  spirit  delicate  and  bright! 
What  drew  thee  down  to  join  the  Roundhead 

throng 

Of  iron-sided  warriors,  rude  and  strong, 
Fighting  for  freedom  in  a  world  half  night? 

Lover  of  Liberty  at  heart  wast  thou, 

Above  all  beauty  bright,  all  music  clear: 

To  thee  she  bared  her  bosom  and  her  brow, 
Breathing  her  virgin  promise  in  thine  ear, 

And  bound  thee  to  her  with  a  double  vow, — 
Exquisite  Puritan,  grave  Cavalier! 


43 


II 

The  cause,  the  cause  for  which  thy  soul  resigned 
Her  singing  robes  to  battle  on  the  plain, 
Was  won,  O  poet,  and  was  lost  again; 

And  lost  the  labour  of  thy  lonely  mind 

On  weary  tasks  of  prose.    What  wilt  thou  find 
To  comfort  thee  for  all  the  toil  and  pain? 
What  solace,  now  thy  sacrifice  is  vain 

And  thou  art  left  forsaken,  poor,  and  blind? 

Like  organ-music  comes  the  deep  reply: 

"The  cause  of  truth  looks  lost,  but  shall  be 
won. 

For  God  hath  given  to  mine  inward  eye 
Vision  of  England  soaring  to  the  sun. 

And  granted  me  great  peace  before  I  die, 
In  thoughts  of  lowly  duty  bravely  done." 


44 


Ill 

O  bend  again  above  thine  organ-board, 
Thou  blind  old  poet  longing  for  repose! 
Thy  Master  claims  thy  service  not  with  those 

Who  only  stand  and  wait  for  his  reward. 

He  pours  the  heavenly  gift  of  song  restored 
Into  thy  breast,  and  bids  thee  nobly  close 
A  noble  life,  with  poetry  that  flows 

In  mighty  music  of  the  major  chord. 

Where    hast    thou    learned    this    deep,    majestic 
strain, 

Surpassing  all  thy  youthful  lyric  grace, 
To  sing  of  Paradise?    Ah,  not  in  vain 

The  griefs  that  won  at  Dante's  side  thy  place, 
And  made  thee,  Milton,  by  thy  years  of  pain, 

The  loftiest  poet  of  the  Saxon  race! 


45 


WORDSWORTH 

ORDSWORTH,  thy  music  like  a  river  rolls 
Among  the  mountains,  and  thy  song  is  fed 
By  living  springs  far  up  the  watershed; 
No  whirling  flood  nor  parching  drought  controls 
The  crystal  current:    even  on  the  shoals 

It  murmurs  clear  and  sweet ;   and  when  its  bed 
Darkens  below  mysterious  cliffs  of  dread, 
Thy  voice  of  peace  grows  deeper  in  our  souls. 

But  thou  in  youth  hast  known  the  breaking  stress 
Of  passion,  and  hast  trod  despair's  dry  ground 
Beneath  black  thoughts  that  wither  and  de 
stroy. 
Ah,  wanderer,  led  by  human  tenderness 

Home  to  the  heart  of  Nature,  thou  hast  found 
The  hidden  Fountain  of  Recovered  Joy. 


46 


KEATS 

THE  melancholy  gift  Aurora  gained 

From  Jove,   that  her  sad  lover  should  not 

see 

The  face  of  death,  no  goddess  asked  for  thee, 
My  Keats!     But  when  the  crimson  blood-drop 

stained 

Thy  pillow,  thou  didst  read  the  fate  ordained,  — 
Brief  life,  wild  love,  a  flight  of  poesy! 
And  then,  —  a  shadow  fell  on  Italy : 
Thy  star  went  down  before  its  brightness  waned. 

Yet  thou  hast  won  the  gift  Tithonus  missed: 
Never  to  feel  the  pain  of  growing  old, 

Nor  lose  the  blissful  sight  of  beauty's  truth, 
But  with  the  ardent  lips  that  music  kissed 

To  breathe  thy  song,  and,  ere  thy  heart  grew 

cold, 
Become  the  Poet  of  Immortal  Youth. 


47 


SHELLEY 

TONIGHT-ERRANT     of     the      Never-ending 
"*       Quest, 

And  Minstrel  of  the  Unfulfilled  Desire; 

For  ever  tuning  thy  frail  earthly  lyre 
To  some  unearthly  music,  and  possessed 
With  painful  passionate  longing  to  invest 

The  golden  dream  of  Love's  immortal  fire 

In  mortal  robes  of  beautiful  attire, 
And  fold  perfection  to  thy  throbbing  breast! 

What  wonder,  Shelley,  if  the  restless  wave 
Should  claim  thee  and  the  leaping  flame  con 
sume 

Thy  drifted  form  on  Viareggio's  beach? 
Fate  to  thy  body  gave  a  fitting  grave, 

And  bade  thy  soul  ride  on  with  fiery  plume, 
Thy    wild    song    ring    in    ocean's   yearning 
speech ! 


48 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

LJOW  blind  the  toil  that  burrows  like  the  mole, 
In    winding    graveyard    pathways    under 
ground, 
For  Browning's  lineage!     What  if  men  have 

found 

Poor  footmen  or  rich  merchants  on  the  roll 
Of  his  forbears?     Did  they  beget  his  soul? 
Nay,  for  he  came  of  ancestry  renowned 
Through    all    the    world,  —  the    poets    laurel- 
crowned 

With  wreaths  from  which  the  autumn  takes  no 
toll. 

The  blazons  on  his  coat-of-arms  are  these: 
The  flaming  sign  of  Shelley's  heart  on  fire, 
The   golden  globe  of  Shakespeare's  human 

stage, 

The  staff  and  scrip  of  Chaucer's  pilgrimage, 
The  rose  of  Dante's  deep,  divine  desire, 
The  tragic  mask  of  wise  Euripides. 


49 


LONGFELLOW 

TN  a  great  land,  a  new  land,  a  land  full  of  labour 

and  riches  and  confusion, 
Where  there  were  many  running  to  and  fro,  and 

shouting,  and  striving  together, 
In  the  midst  of  the  hurry  and  the  troubled  noise, 

I  heard  the  voice  of  one  singing. 

"What   are   you  doing   there,    O   man,   singing 

quietly  amid  all  this  tumult? 
This   is    the   time    for   new   inventions,   mighty 

shoutings,  and  blowings  of  the  trumpet." 
But  he  answered,  "  I  am  only  shepherding  my 

sheep  with  music." 

So  he  went  along  his  chosen  way,  keeping  his 

little  flock  around  him; 
And  he  paused  to  listen,  now  and  then,  beside 

the  antique  fountains, 
Where  the  faces  of  forgotten  gods  were  refreshed 

with  musically  falling  waters; 


Or  he  sat  for  a  while  at  the  blacksmith's  door, 
and  heard  the  cling-clang  of  the  anvils; 

Or  he  rested  beneath  old  steeples  full  of  bells, 
that  showered  their  chimes  upon  him; 

Or  he  walked  along  the  border  of  the  sea,  drink 
ing  in  the  long  roar  of  the  billows; 

Or  he  sunned  himself  in  the  pine-scented  ship 
yard,  amid  the  tattoo  of  the  mallets; 

Or  he  leaned  on  the  rail  of  the  bridge,  letting 
his  thoughts  flow  with  the  whispering  river; 

He  hearkened  also  to  ancient  tales,  and  made 
them  young  again  with  his  singing. 

Then  a  flaming  arrow  of  death  fell  on  his  flock, 

and  pierced  the  heart  of  his  dearest! 
Silent  the  music  now,  as  the  shepherd  entered 

•    the  mystical  temple  of  sorrow: 
Long  he  tarried  in  darkness  there:   but  when  he 
came  out  he  was  singing. 


And  I  saw  the  faces  of  men  and  women  and 
children  silently  turning  toward  him; 

The  youth  setting  out  on  the  journey  of  life,  and 
the  old  man  waiting  beside  the  last  mile-stone ; 

The  toiler  sweating  beneath  his  load;  and  the 
happy  mother  rocking  her  cradle; 

The  lonely  sailor  on  far-off  seas;  and  the  grey- 
minded  scholar  in  his  book-room; 

The  mill-hand  bound  to  a  clacking  machine ;  and 
the  hunter  in  the  forest; 

And  the  solitary  soul  hiding  friendless  in  the 
wilderness  of  the  city; 

Many  human  faces,  full  of  care  and  longing,  were 

drawn  irresistibly  toward  him, 
By  the  charm  of  something  known  to  every  heart, 

yet  very  strange  and  lovely, 
And  at  the  sound  of  that  singing  wonderfully 

all  their  faces  were  lightened. 


"  Why  do  you  listen,  O  you  people,  to  this  old 

and  world-worn  music? 
This  is  not  for  you,  in  the  splendour  of  a  new 

age,  in  the  democratic  triumph! 
Listen  to  the  clashing  cymbals,  the  big  drums,  the 

brazen  trumpets  of  your  poets." 

But   the   people  made   no   answer,   following   in 

their  hearts  the  simpler  music: 
For   it    seemed    to    them,    noise-weary,    nothing 

could  be  better  worth  the  hearing 
Than  the  melodies  which  brought  sweet  order 

into  life's  confusion. 

So  the  shepherd  sang  his  way  along,  until  he 

came  unto  a  mountain: 
And  I  know  not  surely  whether  it  was  called 

Parnassus, 
But  he  climbed  it  out  of  sight,  and  still  I  heard 

the  voice  of  one  singing. 


53 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 
i 

BIRTHDAY  VERSES 

T^EAR  Aldrich,  now  November's  mellow  days 

Have  brought  another  Festa  round  to  you, 
You  can't  refuse  a  loving-cup  of  praise 

From  friends  the  fleeting  years  have  bound  to 
you. 

Here  come  your  Marjorie  Daw,  your  dear  Bad 
Boy, 

Prudence,  and  Judith  the  Bethulian, 
And  many  more,  to  wish  you  birthday  joy, 

And  sunny  hours,  and  sky  caerulean! 

Your  children  all,  they  hurry  to  your  den, 
With  wreaths  of  honour  they  have  won  for 
you, 

To  merry-make  your  threescore  years  and  ten 
You,  old?    Why,  life  has  just  begun  for  you! 


54 


There  's  many  a  reader  whom  your  silver  songs 
And  crystal  stories  cheer  in  loneliness. 

What  though  the  newer  writers  come  in  throngs? 
You  're  sure  to  keep  your  charm  of  only-ness. 

You  do  your  work  with  careful,  loving  touch,  — 
An  artist  to  the  very  core  of  you,  — 

You  know  the  magic  spell  of  "  not-too-much  " : 
We  read,  —  and  wish  that  there  was  more  of 
you. 

And  more  there  is :  for  while  we  love  your  books 
Because  their  subtle  skill  is  part  of  you; 

We  love  you  better,  for  our  friendship  looks 
Behind  them  to  the  human  heart  of  you. 
November  24,  1906. 


55 


II 

MEMORIAL  SONNET 

is  the  house  where  little  Aldrich  read 
The  early  pages  of  Life's  wonder-book: 
With  boyish  pleasure,  in  this  ingle-nook 
He  watched  the  drift-wood  fire  of  Fancy  spread 
Bright  colours  on  the  pictures,  blue  and  red: 
Boy-like  he  skipped  the  longer  words,  and  took 
His  happy  way,  with  searching,  dreamful  look 
Among  the  deeper  things  more  simply  said. 

Then,  came  his  turn  to  write :  and  still  the  flame 
Of  Fancy  played  through  all  the  tales  he  told, 
And  still  he  won  the  laurelled  poet's  fame 
With  simple   words  wrought  into  rhymes  of 

gold. 
Look,   here 's  the   face   to  which  this  house   is 

frame,  — 
A  man  too  wise  to  let  his  heart  grow  old! 

(Dedication  of  the    Aldrich    Memorial  at  Portsmouth, 
June  n,  1908.) 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

OH,  quick  to  feel  the  lightest  touch 

Of  beauty  or  of  truth, 
Rich  in  the  thoughtfulness  of  age, 

The  hopefulness  of  youth, 
The  courage  of  the  gentle  heart, 

The  wisdom  of  the  pure, 
The  strength  of  finely  tempered  souls 

To  labour  and  endure! 

The  blue  of  springtime  in  your  eyes 

Was  never  quenched  by  pain; 
And  winter  brought  your  head  the  crown 

Of  snow  without  a  stain. 
The  poet's  mind,  the  prince's  heart, 

You  kept  until  the  end, 
Nor  ever  faltered  in  your  work, 

Nor  ever  failed  a  friend. 


57 


You  followed,  through  the  quest  of  life, 

The  light  that  shines  above 
The  tumult  and  the  toil  of  men, 

And  shows  us  what  to  love. 
Right  loyal  to  the  best  you  knew, 

Reality  or  dream, 
You  ran  the  race,  you  fought  the  fight, 

A  follower  of  the  Gleam. 

We  lay  upon  your  well-earned  grave 

The  wreath  of  asphodel, 
We  speak  above  your  peaceful  face 

The  tender  word  Farewell! 
For  well  you  fare,  in  God's  good  care, 

Somewhere  within  the  blue, 
And  know,  to-day,  your  dearest  dreams 

Are  true,  —  and  true,  —  and  true! 

(Read  at  the  funeral  of  Mr.  Stedman,  January  ax,  1908. 


LYRICS 

DRAMATIC 
AND  PERSONAL 


LATE  SPRING 


H,  who  will  tell  me,  in  these  leaden  days, 

Why  the  sweet  Spring  delays, 
And  where  she  hides,  —  the  dear  desire 

Of  every  heart  that  longs 
For  bloom,  and  fragrance,  and  the  ruby  fire 
Of  maple-buds  along  the  misty  hills, 
And  that  immortal  call  which  fills 

The  waiting  wood  with  songs? 
The  snow-drops  came  so  long  ago, 

It  seemed  that  Spring  was  near ! 

But  then  returned  the  snow 
With  biting  winds,  and  all  the  earth  grew  sere, 

And  sullen  clouds  drooped  low 
To  veil  the  sadness  of  a  hope  deferred : 
Then  rain,  rain,  rain,  incessant  rain 

Beat  on  the  window-pane, 
Through  which  I  watched  the  solitary  bird 
That  braved  the  tempest,  buffeted  and  tossed, 
With  rumpled  feathers,  down  the  wind  again. 

Oh,  were  the  seeds  all  lost 
When  winter  laid  the  wild  flowers  in  their  tomb? 

I  searched  their  haunts  in  vain 


61 


For  blue  hepaticas,  and  trilliums  white, 
And  trailing  arbutus,  the  Spring's  delight, 
Starring  the  withered  leaves  with  rosy  bloom. 
The  woods  were  bare :   and  every  night  the  frost 
To  all  my  longings  spoke  a  silent  nay, 
And  told  me  Spring  was  far  and  far  away. 
Even  the  robins  were  too  cold  to  sing, 
Except  a  broken  and  discouraged  note,  — 
Only  the  tuneful  sparrow,  on  whose  throat 
Music  has  put  her  triple  finger-print, 
Lifted  his  head  and  sang  my  heart  a  hint, — 
"  Wait,  wait,  wait !  oh,  wait  a  while  for  Spring !  " 


II 

But  now,  Carina,  what  divine  amends 

For  all  delay !    What  sweetness  treasured  up, 

What  wine  of  joy  that  blends 
A  hundred  flavours  in  a  single  cup, 

Is  poured  into  this  perfect  day! 
For  look,  sweet  heart,  here  are  the  early  flowers, 

That  lingered  on  their  way, 
Thronging  in  haste  to  kiss  the  feet  of  May, 
And  mingled  with  the  bloom  of  later  hours,  — 
Anemonies  and  cinque-foils,  violets  blue 
And  white,  and  iris  richly  gleaming  through 
The  grasses  of  the  meadow,  and  a  blaze 
Of  butter-cups  and  daisies  in  the  field, 
Filling  the  air  with  praise, 


62 


As  if  a  silver  chime  of  bells  had  pealed! 

The  frozen  songs  within  the  breast 
Of  silent  birds  that  hid  in  leafless  woods, 

Melt  into  rippling  floods 

Of  gladness  unrepressed. 
Now  oriole  and  blue-bird,  thrush  and  lark, 
Warbler  and  wren  and  vireo, 
Confuse  their  music;  for  the  living  spark 
Of  Love  has  touched  the  fuel  of  desire, 
And  every  heart  leaps  up  in  singing  fire. 

It  seems  as  if  the  land 
Were  breathing  deep  beneath  the  sun's  caress, 

Trembling  with  tenderness, 

While  all  the  woods  expand, 

In  shimmering  clouds  of  rose  and  gold  and  green, 
To  veil  the  joys  too  sacred  to  be  seen. 


Ill 

Come,  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
True  love,  long  sought  and  found  at  last, 
And  lead  me  deep  into  the  Spring  divine 

That  makes  amends  for  all  the  wintry  past. 
For  all  the  flowers  and  songs  I  feared  to  miss 

Arrive  with  you; 
And  in  the  lingering  pressure  of  your  kiss 

My  dreams  come  true; 
And  in  the  promise  of  your  generous  eyes 

I  read  the  mystic  sign 

Of  joy  more  perfect  made 

Because  so  long  delayed, 
And  bliss  enhanced  by  rapture  of  surprise. 
Ah,  think  not  early  love  alone  is  strong; 
He  loveth  best  whose  heart  has  learned  to  wait 
Dear  messenger  of  Spring  that  tarried  long, 
You  're  doubly  dear  because  you  come  so  late. 


64 


NEPENTHE 

it  was  like  you  to  forget, 
And  cancel  in  the  welcome  of  your  smile 

My  deep  arrears  of  debt, 

And  with  the  putting  forth  of  both  your  hands 

To  sweep  away  the  bars  my  folly  set 

Between    us  —  bitter    thoughts,    and    harsh    de 
mands, 

And  reckless  deeds  that  seemed  untrue 

To  love,  when  all  the  while 

My  heart  was  aching  through  and  through 

For  you,  sweet  heart,  and  only  you. 

Yet,  as  I  turned  to  come  to  you  again, 

I  thought  there  must  be  many  a  mile 

Of  sorrowful  reproach  to  cross, 

And  many  an  hour  of  mutual  pain 

To  bear,  until  I  could  make  plain 

That  all  my  pride  was  but  the  fear  of  loss, 

And  all  my  doubt  the  shadow  of  despair 

To  win  a  heart  so  innocent  and  fair; 

And  even  that  which  looked  most  ill 

Was  but  the  fever-fret  and  effort  vain 

To  dull  the  thirst  which  you  alone  could  still. 


But  as  I  turned  the  desert  miles  were  crossed, 

And  when  I  came  the  weary  hours  were  sped! 

For  there  you  stood  beside  the  open  door, 

Glad,  gracious,  smiling  as  before, 

And  with  bright  eyes  and  tender  hands  outspread 

Restored  me  to  the  Eden  I  had  lost. 

Never  a  word  of  cold  reproof, 

No  sharp  reproach,  no  glances  that  accuse 

The  culprit  whom  they  hold  aloof,  — 

Ah,  't  is  not  thus  that  other  women  use 

The  power  they  have  won! 

For  there  is  none  like  you,  beloved,  —  none 

Secure  enough  to  do  what  you  have  done. 

Where  did  you  learn  this  heavenly  art,  — 

You  sweetest  and  most  wise  of  all  that  live, — 

With  silent  welcome  to  impart 

Assurance  of  the  royal  heart 

That  never  questions  where  it  would  forgive? 

None  but  a  queen  could  pardon  me  like  this! 

My  sovereign  lady,  let  me  lay 

Within  each  rosy  palm  a  loyal  kiss 

Of  penitence,  then  close  the  fingers  up, 

Thus  —  thus!     Now  give  the  cup 

Of  full  nepenthe  in  your  crimson  mouth, 

And  come  —  the  garden  blooms  with  bliss, 

The  wind  is  in  the  south, 

The  rose  of  love  with  dew  is  wet  — 

Dear,  it  was  like  you  to  forget! 


66 


HESPER 

LJER  eyes  are  like  the  evening  air, 

Her  voice  is  like  a  rose, 
Her  lips  are  like  a  lovely  song, 

That  ripples  as  it  flows, 
And  she  herself  is  sweeter  than 

The  sweetest  thing  she  knows. 

A  slender,  haunting,  twilight   form 

Of  wonder  and  surprise, 
She  seemed  a  fairy  or  a  child, 

Till,  deep  within  her  eyes, 
I  saw  the  homeward-leading  star 

Of  womanhood  arise. 


ARRIVAL 

A  CROSS  a  thousand  miles  of  sea,  a  hundred 

leagues  of  land, 
Along  a  path  I  had  not  traced  and  could  not 

understand, 
I  travelled  fast  and  far  for  this,  —  to  take  thee 

by  the  hand. 

A  pilgrim  knowing  not  the  shrine  where  he  would 

bend  his  knee, 
A  mariner  without  a  dream  of  what   his   port 

would  be, 
So  fared  I  with  a  seeking  heart  until  I  came  to 

thee. 

O  cooler  than  a  grove  of  palm  in  some  heat-weary 

place, 
O  fairer  than  an  isle  of  calm  after  the  wild  sea 

race, 
The  quiet  room  adorned  with  flowers  where  first 

I  saw  thy  face ! 


68 


Then  furl  the  sail,  let  fall  the  oar,  forget  the  paths 

of  foam! 
The  Power  that  made  me  wander  far  at  last  has 

brought  me  home 
To  thee,  dear  haven  of  my  heart,  and  I  no  more 

will  roam. 


DEPARTURE 

QH,  why  are  you  shining  so  bright,  big  Sun, 

And  why  is  the  garden  so  gay? 
Do  you  know  that  my  days  of  delight  are  done, 

Do  you  know  I  am  going  away? 
If  you  covered  your  face  with  a  cloud,  I  'd  dream 

You  were  sorry  for  me  in  my  pain, 
And  the  heads  of  the  flowers  all  bowed  would 

seem 
To  be  weeping  with  me  in  the  rain. 

But  why  is  your  head  so  low,  sweet  heart, 

And  why  are  your  eyes  overcast? 
Are  they  clouded  because  you  know  we  must  part, 

Do  you  think  this  embrace  is  our  last? 
Then  kiss  me  again,  and  again,  and  again, 

Look  up  as  you  bid  me  good-bye ! 
For  your  face  is  too  dear  for  the  stain  of  a  tear, 

And  your  smile  is  the  sun  in  my  sky. 


70 


THE  BLACK  BIRDS 


QNCE,  only  once,  I  saw  it  clear, — 

That  Eden  every  human  heart  has  dreamed 
A  hundred  times,  but  always  far  away ! 
Ah,  well  do  I  remember  how  it  seemed, 
Through  the  still  atmosphere 
Of  that  enchanted  day, 
To  lie  wide  open  to  my  weary  feet : 
A  little  land  of  love  and  joy  and  rest, 
With  meadows  of  soft  green, 
Rosy  with  cyclamen,  and  sweet 
With  delicate  breath  of  violets  unseen,  — 
And,  tranquil  'mid  the  bloom 
As  if  it  waited  for  a  coming  guest, 
A  little  house  of  peace  and  joy  and  love 
Was  nested  like  a  snow-white  dove 

From  the  rough  mountain  where  I  stood, 

Homesick  for  happiness, 

Only  a  narrow  valley  and  a  darkling  wood 

To  cross,  and  then  the  long  distress 

Of  solitude  would  be  forever  past,  — 

I  should  be  home  at  last. 

But  not  too  soon!   oh,  let  me  linger  here 

And  feed  my  eyes,  hungry  with  sorrow, 

On  all  this  loveliness,  so  near, 

And  mine  to-morrow! 


Then,  from  the  wood,  across  the  silvery  blue, 

A  dark  bird  flew, 

Silent,  with  sable  wings. 

Close  in  his  wake  another  came,  — 

Fragments  of  midnight  floating  through 

The  sunset  flame,  — 

Another  and  another,  weaving  rings 

Of  blackness  on  the  primrose  sky,  — 

Another,  and  another,  look,  a  score, 

A  hundred,  yes,  a  thousand  rising  heavily 

From  that  accursed,  dumb,  and  ancient  wood, — 

They  boiled  into  the  lucid  air 

Like  smoke  from  some  deep  caldron  of  despair! 

And  more,  and  more,  and  ever  more, 

The  numberless,  ill-omened  brood, 

Flapping  their  ragged  plumes, 

Possessed  the  landscape  and  the  evening  light 

With  menaces  and  glooms. 

Oh,  dark,  dark,  dark  they  hovered  o'er  the  place 

Where  once  I  saw  the  little  house  so  white 

Amid  the  flowers,  covering  every  trace 

Of  beauty  from  my  troubled  sight,  — 

And  suddenly  it  was  night! 


72 


II 

At  break  of  day  I  crossed  the  wooded  vale ; 

And  while  the  morning  made 

A  trembling  light  among  the  tree-tops  pale, 

I  saw  the  sable  birds  on  every  limb, 

Clinging  together  closely  in  the  shade, 

And  croaking  placidly  their  surly  hymn. 

But,  oh,  the  little  land  of  peace  and  love 

That     those     night-loving     wings     had     poised 

above,  — 

Where  was  it  gone? 
Lost,  lost  forevermore! 
Only  a  cottage,  dull  and  gray, 
In  the  cold  light  of  dawn, 
With  iron  bars  across  the  door: 
Only  a  garden  where  the  withering  heads 
Of  flowers,  presaging  decay, 
Hung  over  barren  beds: 
Only  a  desolate  field  that  lay 
Untilled  beneath  the  desolate  day,  — 
Where  Eden  seemed  to  bloom  I  found  but  these ! 
So,  wondering,  I  passed  along  my  way, 
With  anger  in  my  heart,  too  deep  for  words, 
Against  that  grove  of  evil-sheltering  trees, 
And  the  black  magic  of  the  croaking  birds. 


73 


WITHOUT  DISGUISE 

TF  I  have  erred  in  showing  all  my  heart, 
And  lost  your  favour  by  a  lack  of  pride ; 
If  standing  like  a  beggar  at  your  side 
With  naked  feet,  I  have  forgot  the  art 
Of  those  who  bargain  well  in  passion's  mart, 
And  win  the  thing  they  want  by  what  they 

hide; 

Be  mine  the  fault  as  mine  the  hope  denied, 
Be  mine  the  lover's  and  the  loser's  part. 

The  sin,  if  sin  it  was,  I  do  repent, 

And  take  the  penance  on  myself  alone; 

Yet  after  I  have  borne  the  punishment, 
I  shall  not  fear  to  stand  before  the  throne 

Of  Love  with  open  heart,  and  make  this  plea: 

"  At  least  I  have  not  lied  to  her  nor  Thee ! " 


74 


GRATITUDE 


D^  vou   give  thanks   *or  th*s*  —  or 
No,  God  be  thanked 

I  am  not  grateful 
In    that    cold,    calculating    way,    with    blessing 

ranked 

As  one,  two,  three,  and  four,  —  that  would  be 
hateful. 

I  only  know  that  every  day  brings  good  above 

My  poor  deserving; 

I  only  feel  that,  in  the  road  of  Life,  true  Love 
Is  leading  me  along  and  never  swerving. 

Whatever  gifts  and  mercies  in  my  lot  may  fall, 

I  would  not  measure 
As  worth  a  certain  price  in  praise,  or  great  or 

small  ; 
But  take  and  use  them  all  with  simple  pleasure. 


75 


For  when  we  gladly  eat  our  daily  bread,  we  bless 

The  Hand  that  feeds  us; 

And  when  we  tread  the  road  of  Life  in  cheer 
fulness, 

Our  very  heart-beats  praise  the  Love  that  leads 
us. 


MASTER  OF  MUSIC 

(In  memory  of  Theodore  Thomas,  1905) 


of  architect,  glory  of  painter,  and  sculp 
tor,  and  bard, 
Living  forever  in  temple  and  picture  and  statue 

and  song,  — 
Look  how  the  world  with  the  lights  that  they  lit 

is  illumined  and  starred, 

Brief  was  the  flame  of  their  life,  but  the  lamps 
of  their  art  burn  long  ! 

Where  is  the  Master  of  Music,  and  how  has  he 

vanished  away? 
Where  is  the  work  that  he  wrought  with  his 

wonderful  art  in  the  air? 
Gone,  —  it  is  gone  like   the  glow  on  the  cloud 

at  the  close  of  the  day! 
The  Master  has  finished  his  work,  and  the  glory 

of  music  is  —  where? 


77 


Once,  at  the  wave  of  his  wand,  all  the  billows  of 

musical  sound 
Followed  his  will,  as  the  sea  was  ruled  by  the 

prophet  of  old: 
Now  that  his  hand  is  relaxed,  and  his  rod  has 

dropped  to  the  ground, 

Silent  and  dark  are  the  shores  where  the  mar 
vellous  harmonies  rolled! 

Nay,  but  not  silent  the  hearts  that  were  filled  by 

that  life-giving  sea; 
Deeper  and   purer  forever  the  tides   of  their 

being  will  roll, 
Grateful  and  joyful,  O  Master,  because  they  have 

listened  to  thee,  — 

The  glory  of  music  endures  in  the  depths  of 
the  human  soul. 


STARS  AND  THE  SOUL 

(To  Charles  A.  Young,  Astronomer) 

"  'T'WO   things,"  the  wise  man  said,  "fill  me 

with  awe: 

The  starry  heavens  and  the  moral  law." 
Nay,  add  another  wonder  to  thy  roll,  — 
The  living  marvel  of  the  human  soul! 

Born  in  the  dust  and  cradled  in  the  dark, 

It  feels  the  fire  of  an  immortal  spark, 

And  learns  to  read,  with  patient,  searching  eyes, 

The  splendid  secret  of  the  unconscious  skies. 

For  God  thought  Light  before  He  spoke  the  word ; 
The  darkness  understood  not,  though  it  heard: 
But  man  looks  up  to  where  the  planets  swim, 
And  thinks  God's  thoughts  of  glory  after  Him. 

What  knows  the  star  that  guides  the  sailor's  way, 
Or  lights  the  lover's  bower  with  liquid  ray, 
Of  toil  and  passion,  danger  and  distress, 
Brave  hope,  true  love,  and  utter  faithfulness? 


79 


But  human  hearts  that  suffer  good  and  ill, 
And  hold  to  virtue  with  a  loyal  will, 
Adorn  the  law  that  rules  our  mortal  strife 
With  star-surpassing  victories  of  life. 

So  take  our  thanks,  dear  reader  of  the  skies, 
Devout  astronomer,  most  humbly  wise, 
For  lessons  brighter  than  the  stars  can  give, 
And  inward  light  that  helps  us  all  to  live. 

The  world  has  brought  the  laurel-leaves  to  crown 
The  star-discoverer's  name  with  high  renown ; 
Accept  the  flower  of  love  we  lay  with  these 
For  influence  sweeter  than  the  Pleiades! 


80 


TO  JULIA  MARLOWE 

(Reading  Keats'  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn) 

TONG  had  I  loved  this  "  Attic  shape,"  the  brede 

Of  marble  maidens  round  this  urn  divine: 
But  when  your  golden  voice  began  to  read, 
The  empty  urn  was  filled  with  Chian  wine. 


8z 


PAN  LEARNS  MUSIC 

J^IMBER-limbed,   lazy   god,   stretched  on  the 

rock, 

Where  is  sweet  Echo,  and  where  is  your  flock? 
What   are   you    making   here?      "  Listen,"    said 

Pan, — 
"  Out  of  a  river-reed  music  for  man !  " 


82 


"UNDINE" 

'HP  WAS  far  away  and  long  ago, 

•*•      When  I  was  but  a  dreaming  boy, 
This  fairy  tale  of  love  and  woe 

Entranced  my  heart  with  tearful  joy; 
And  while  with  white  Undine  I  wept, 

Your  spirit, —  ah,  how  strange  it  seems,— 
Was  cradled  in  some  star,  and  slept, 

Unconscious  of  her  coming  dreams. 


LOVE  IN  A  LOOK 

T  ET  me  but  feel  thy  look's  embrace, 

Transparent,  pure,  and  warm, 
And  I  '11  not  ask  to  touch  thy  face, 

Or  fold  thee  with  mine  arm. 
For  in  thine  eyes  a  girl  doth  rise, 

Arrayed  in  candid  bliss, 
And  draws  me  to  her  with  a  charm 

More  close  than  any  kiss. 

A  loving-cup  of  golden  wine, 

Songs  of  a  silver  brook, 
And  fragrant  breaths  of  eglantine, 

Are  mingled  in  thy  look. 
More  fair  they  are  than  any  star, 

Thy  topaz  eyes  divine  — 
And  deep  within  their  trysting-nook 

Thy  spirit  blends  with  mine. 


MY  APRIL  LADY 


down  the  stair  at  morning 
The  sunbeams  round  her  float, 
Sweet  rivulets  of  laughter 

Are  bubbling  in  her  throat; 
The  gladness  of  her  greeting 

Is  gold  without  alloy; 
And  in  the  morning  sunlight 
I  think  her  name  is  Joy. 

When  in  the  evening  twilight 

The  quiet  book-room  lies, 
We  read  the  sad  old  ballads, 

While  from  her  hidden  eyes 
The  tears  are  falling,  falling, 

That  give  her  heart  relief; 
And  in  the  evening  twilight, 

I  think  her  name  is  Grief. 


My  little  April  lady, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 
She  weaves  the  old  spring  magic, 

And  breaks  my  heart  in  flowers! 
But  when  her  moods  are  ended, 

She  nestles  like  a  dove ; 
Then,  by  the  pain  and  rapture, 

I  know  her  name  is  Love. 


86 


A  LOVER'S  ENVY 

T  ENVY  every  flower  that  blows 

Along  the  meadow  where  she  goes, 
And  every  bird  that  sings  to  her, 
And  every  breeze  that  brings  to  her 
The  fragrance  of  the  rose. 

I  envy  every  poet's  rhyme 
That  moves  her  heart  at  eventime, 
And  every  tree  that  wears  for  her 
Its  brightest  bloom,  and  bears  for  her 
The  fruitage  of  its  prime. 

I  envy  every  Southern  night 

That  paves  her  path  with  moonbeams  white, 
And  silvers  all  the  leaves  for  her, 
And  in  their  shadow  weaves  for  her 
A  dream  of  dear  delight. 

I  envy  none  whose  love  requires 
Of  her  a  gift,  a  task  that  tires: 

I  only  long  to  live  to  her, 

I  only  ask  to  give  to  her 
All  that  her  heart  desires. 


THE  HERMIT  THRUSH 

Q   WONDERFUL!     How  liquid  clear 

The  molten  gold  of  that  ethereal  tone, 
Floating  and  falling  through  the  wood  alone, 
A  hermit-hymn  poured  out  for  God  to  hear! 
O  holy,  holy,  holy  I    Hyaline, 
Long  light,  low  light,  glory  of  eventide  ! 
Lowe  far  away,  far  up,  —  up,  —  love  divine  I 
Little  love,  too,  for  ever,  ever  near, 
Warm  love,  earth  love,  tender  love  of  mine, 
In  the  leafy  dark  vjhere  you  hide, 
You  are  mine,  —  mine,  —  mine  I 

Ah,  my  beloved,  do  you  feel  with  me 
The  hidden  virtue  of  that  melody, 
The  rapture  and  the  purity  of  love, 
The  heavenly  joy  that  can  not  find  the  word? 
Then,  while  we  wait  again  to  hear  the  bird, 
Come  very  near  to  me,  and  do  not  move,  — 
Now,  hermit  of  the  woodland,  fill  anew 
The  cool,  green  cup  of  air  with  harmony, 
And  we  will  drink  the  wine  of  love  with  you. 


88 


FIRE-FLY  CITY 

TIKE  a  long  arrow  through  the  dark  the  train 

is  darting, 
Bearing  me  far  away,  after  a  perfect  day  of 

love's  delight: 
Wakeful    with    all    the    sad-sweet    memories    of 

parting, 

I  lift  the  narrow  window-shade  and  look  out 
on  the  night. 

Lonely  the  land  unknown,  and  like  a  river  flow 
ing, 
Forest  and  field  and  hill  are  gliding  backward 

still  athwart  my  dream; 
Till  in  that  country  strange,  and  ever  stranger 

growing, 

A  magic  city  full  of  lights  begins  to  glow  and 
gleam. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  dim  the  lamps  are  lit 

in  millions; 
Long  avenues  unfold  clear-shining  lines  of  gold 

across  the  green; 

Clusters   and   rings   of  light,   and  luminous   pa 
vilions,  — 

Oh,  who  will  tell  the  city's  name,  and  what 
these  wonders  mean? 


Why  do  they  beckon  me,  and  what  have  they  to 

show  me? 
Crowds  in  the  blazing  street,  mirth  where  the 

feasters  meet,  kisses  and  wine: 
Many  to  laugh  with  me,  but  never  one  to  know 

me: 

A  cityful  of  stranger-hearts  and  none  to  beat 
with  mine! 

Look  how  the  glittering  lines  are  wavering  and 

lifting,  — 
Softly  the  breeze  of  night,  scatters  the  vision 

bright:   and,  passing  fair, 
Over  the  meadow-grass  and  through  the  forest 

drifting, 

The  Fire-Fly  City  of  the  Dark  is  lost  in  empty 
air! 

Girl   of  the   golden   eyes,   to   you   my   heart   is 

turning : 
Sleep  in  your  quiet  room,  while  through  the 

midnight  gloom  my  train  is  whirled. 
Clear  in  your  dreams  of  me  the  light  of  love  is 

burning,  — 

The  only  never  failing  light  in  all  the  phantom 
world. 


90 


THE  GENTLE  TRAVELLER 

"'"PHROUGH  many  a  land  your  journey  ran, 
And  showed  the  best  the  world  can  boast 
Now  tell  me,  traveller,  if  you  can, 
The  place  that  pleased  you  most." 

She  laid  her  hands  upon  my  breast, 
And  murmured  gently  in  my  ear, 

"  The  place  I  loved  and  liked  the  best 
Was  in  your  arms,  my  dear !  " 


SICILY,  DECEMBER,  J908 

GARDEN  isle,  beloved  by  Sun  and  Sea,  — 
Whose  bluest  billows  kiss  thy  curving  bays, 
Whose  amorous  light  enfolds  thee  in  warm 

rays 

That   fill   with   fruit   each   dark-leaved   orange- 
tree,  — 

What  hidden  hatred  hath  the  Earth  for  thee? 
Behold,  again,  in  these  dark,  dreadful  days, 
She  trembles  with  her  wrath,  and  swiftly  lays 
Thy  beauty  waste  in  wreck  and  agony! 

Is  Nature,  then,  a  strife  of  jealous  powers, 
And  man  the  plaything  of  unconscious  fate? 
Not  so,  my  troubled  heart !    God  reigns  above 
And  man  is  greatest  in  his  darkest  hours : 
Walking  amid  the  cities  desolate, 
The  Son  of  God  appears  in  human  love. 

Tertius  and  Henry  van  Dyke,  January,  1909. 


92 


THE  WINDOW 

ALL  night  long,  by  a  distant  bell, 

The  passing  hours  were  notched 
On  the  dark,  while  her  breathing  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  spark  of  life  I  watched 
In  her  face  was  glowing  or  fading,  —  who  could 

tell?  — 
And  the  open  window  of  the  room, 

With  a  flare  of  yellow  light, 
Was  peering  out  into  the  gloom, 
Like  an  eye  that  searched  the  night. 

Oh,  what  do  you  see  in  the  dark,  little  window,  and 

why  do  you  fear  ? 
"I  see  that  the  garden  is  crowded  with  creeping  forms 

of  fear: 
Little  white  ghosts  in  the  locust-tree,  that  wa<ve  in  the 

night-wind's  breath, 
And  low  in  the  leafy  laurels  the  lurking  shadow  of 

death." 


93 


Sweet,  clear  notes  of  a  waking  bird 

Told  of  the  passing  away 
Of  the  dark,  —  and  my  darling  may  have  heard ; 

For  she  smiled  in  her  sleep,  while  the  ray 
Of  the  rising  dawn  spoke  joy  without  a  word, 
Till  the  splendor  born  in  the  east  outburned 
The  yellow  lamplight,  pale  and  thin, 

And  the  open  window  slowly  turned 
To  the  eye  of  the  morning,  looking  in. 

Oh,  what  do  you  see  in  the  room,  little  window,  thai 

makes  you  so  bright  ? 
"I  see  thai  a  child  is  asleep  on  her  pillow,  soft  and 

white, 
With  the  rose  of  life  on  her  lips,  and  the  breath  of  life 

in  her  breast, 
And  the  arms  of  God  around  her  as  she  quietly  takes 

her  rest." 

Neuilly,  June,  1909. 


94 


TWILIGHT  IN  THE  ALPS 

T  LOVE  the  hour  that  comes,  with  dusky  hair 
And  dewy  feet,  along  the  Alpine  dells 
To  lead  the  cattle  forth.    A  thousand  bells 
Go  chiming  after  her  across  the  fair 
And  flowery  uplands,  while  the  rosy  flare 

Of  sunset  on  the  snowy  mountain  dwells, 
And  valleys  darken,  and  the  drowsy  spells 
Of  peace  are  woven  through  the  purple  air. 

Dear  is  the  magic  of  this  hour:   she  seems 
To  walk  before  the  dark  by  falling  rills, 

And  lend  a  sweeter  song  to  hidden  streams ; 
She  opens  all  the  doors  of  night,  and  fills 

With  moving  bells  the  music  of  my  dreams, 
That  wander  far  among  the  sleeping  hills. 

Gstaad,  August,  1909. 


95 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

'"THE  land  was  broken  in  despair, 

The  princes  quarrelled  in  the  dark, 
When  clear  and  tranquil,  through  the  troubled  air 
Of  selfish  minds  and  wills  that  did  not  dare, 
Your  star  arose,  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

O  virgin  breast  with  lilies  white, 

O  sun-burned  hand  that  bore  the  lance, 
You  taught  the  prayer  that  helps  men  to  unite, 
You  brought  the  courage  equal  to  the  fight, 
You  gave  a  heart  to  France! 

Your  king  was  crowned,  your  country  free, 

At  Rheims  you  had  your  soul's  desire: 
And  then,  at  Rouen,  maid  of  Domremy, 
The  black-robed  judges  gave  your  victory 
The  martyr's  crown  of  fire. 


And  now  again  the  times  are  ill, 

And  doubtful  leaders  miss  the  mark; 
The  people  lack  the  single  faith  and  will 
To  make  them  one,  —  your  country  needs  you 
still,  — 

Come  back  again,  Jeanne  d'Arc! 

O  woman-star,  arise  once  more 

And  shine  to  bid  your  land  advance: 
The  old  heroic  trust  in  God  restore, 
Renew  the  brave,  unselfish  hopes  of  yore, 
And  give  a  heart  to  France! 

Paris,  July,  1909. 


97 


HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE 

June  22,  1611 
THE  SHALLOP  ON   HUDSON  BAY 

sail  in  sight  upon  the  lonely  sea 
And  only  one,  God  knows!     For  never  ship 
But  mine  broke  through  the  icy  gates  that  guard 
These  waters,  greater  grown  than  any  since 
We  left  the  shores  of  England.    We  were  first, 
My  men,  to  battle  in  between  the  bergs 
And  floes  to  these  wide  waves.    This  gulf  is  mine ; 
I  name  it!  and  that  flying  sail  is  mine! 
And  there,  hull-down  below  that  flying  sail, 
The  ship  that  staggers  home  is  mine,  mine,  mine ! 
My  ship  Discoverie ! 

The  sullen  dogs 

Of  mutineers,  the  bitches'  whelps  that  snatched 
Their  food  and  bit  the  hand  that  nourished  them, 
Have  stolen  her.     You  ingrate  Henry  Greene, 
I  picked  you  from  the  gutter  of  Houndsditch, 
And  paid  your  debts,  and  kept  you  in  my  house, 
And  brought  you  here  to  make  a  man  of  you ! 
You  Robert  Juet,  ancient,  crafty  man, 
Toothless  and  tremulous,  how  many  times 


Have  I  employed  you  as  a  master's  mate 

To  give  you  bread?     And  you  Abacuck  Prickett, 

You  sailor-clerk,  you  salted  puritan, 

You  knew  the  plot  and  silently  agreed, 

Salving  your  conscience  with  a  pious  lie! 

Yes,  all  of  you  —  hounds,  rebels,  thieves !    Bring 

back 
My  ship ! 

Too  late,  —  I  rave,  —  they  cannot  hear 
My  voice:   and  if  they  heard,  a  drunken  laugh 
Would  be  their  answer;    for  their  minds  have 

caught 

The  fatal  firmness  of  the  fool's  resolve, 
That  looks  like  courage  but  is  only  fear. 
They  '11    blunder    on,    and    lose    my    ship,    and 

drown,  — 

Or  blunder  home  to  England  and  be  hanged. 
Their  skeletons  will  rattle  in  the  chains 
Of  some  tall  gibbet  on  the  Channel  cliffs, 
While  passing  mariners  look  up  and  say : 
"  Those  are  the  rotten  bones  of  Hudson's  men 
"  Who  left  their  captain  in  the  frozen  North !  " 

O  God  of  justice,  why  hast  Thou  ordained 
Plans  of  the  wise  and  actions  of  the  brave 
Dependent  on  the  aid  of  fools  and  cowards? 


99 


Look,  —  there  she  goes,  —  her  topsails  in  the  sun 
Gleam  from  the  ragged  ocean  edge,  and  drop 
Clean  out  of  sight!    So  let  the  traitors  go 
Clean  out  of  mind !    We  '11  think  of  braver  things ! 
Come  closer  in  the  boat,  my  friends.    John  King, 
You  take  the  tiller,  keep  her  head  nor'west. 
You  Philip  Staffe,  the  only  one  who  chose 
Freely  to  share  our  little  shallop's  fate, 
Rather  than  travel  in  the  hell-bound  ship, — 
Too  good  an  English  seaman  to  desert 
These  crippled  comrades, — try  to  make  them  rest 
More  easy  on  the  thwarts.     And  John,  my  son, 
My  little  shipmate,  come  and  lean  your  head 
Against  your  father's  knee.    Do  you  recall 
That  April  morn  in  Ethelburga's  church, 
Five  years  ago,  when  side  by  side  we  kneeled 
To  take  the  sacrament  with  all  our  men, 
Before  the  Hopewell  left  St.  Catherine's  docks 
On  our  first  voyage?    It  was  then  I  vowed 
My  sailor-soul  and  years  to  search  the  sea 
Until  we  found  the  water-path  that  leads 
From  Europe  into  Asia. 

I  believe 

That  God  has  poured  the  ocean  round  His  world, 
Not  to  divide,  but  to  unite  the  lands. 


IOO 


And  all  the  English  captains  that  have  dared 
In  little  ships  to  plough  uncharted  waves,  — 
Davis  and  Drake,  Hawkins  and  Frobisher, 
Raleigh  and  Gilbert,  —  all  the  other  names,  — 
Are  written  in  the  chivalry  of  God 
As  men  who  served  His  purpose.    I  would  claim 
A  place  among  that  knighthood  of  the  sea; 
And  I  have  earned  it,  though  my  quest  should 

fail! 

For,  mark  me  well,  the  honour  of  our  life 
Derives  from  this:   to  have  a  certain  aim 
Before  us  always,  which  our  will  must  seek 
Amid  the  peril  of  uncertain  ways. 
Then,  though  we  miss  the  goal,  our  search  is 

crowned 

With  courage,  and  we  find  along  our  path 
A  rich  reward  of  unexpected  things. 
Press  towards  the  aim :  take  fortune  as  it  fares ! 

I  know  not  why,  but  something  in  my  heart 
Has   always  whispered,    "  Westward   seek  your 

goal!" 

Three  times  they  sent  me  east,  but  still  I  turned 
The  bowsprit  west,  and  felt  among  the  floes 
Of  ruttling  ice  along  the  Groneland  coast, 


101 


And  down  the  rugged  shore  of  Newfoundland, 
And  past  the  rocky  capes  and  wooded  bays 
Where  Gosnold  sailed,  —  like  one  who  feels  his 

way 
With     outstretched    hand    across     a     darkened 

room,  — 

I  groped  among  the  inlets  and  the  isles, 
To  find  the  passage  to  the  Land  of  Spice. 
I  have  not  found  it  yet,  —  but  I  have  found 
Things  worth  the  finding ! 

Son,  have  you  forgot 

Those  mellow  autumn  days,  two  years  ago, 
When  first  we  sent  our  little  ship  Half- Moon,  •— 
The  flag  of  Holland  floating  at  her  peak,  — 
Across  a  sandy  bar,  and  sounded  in 
Among  the  channels,  to  a  goodly  bay 
Where  all  the  navies  of  the  world  could  ride? 
A  fertile  island  that  the  redmen  called 
Manhattan,  lay  above  the  bay:   the  land 
Around  was  bountiful  and  friendly  fair. 
But  never  land  was  fair  enough  to  hold 
The  seaman  from  the  calling  of  the  sea. 
And  so  we  bore  to  westward  of  the  isle, 
Along  a  mighty  inlet,  where  the  tide 
Was  troubled  by  a  downward-flowing  flood 
That  seemed  to  come  from  far  away,  —  perhaps 
From  some  mysterious  gulf  of  Tartary? 


102 


Inland  we  held  our  course;   by  palisades 
Of  naked  rock  where  giants  might  have  built 
Their  fortress;    and  by  rolling  hills  adorned 
With  forests  rich  in  timber  for  great  ships; 
Through  narrows  where  the  mountains  shut  us  in 
With    frowning    cliffs    that    seemed    to    bar    the 

stream ; 

And  then  through  open  reaches  where  the  banks 
Sloped  to  the  water  gently,  with  their  fields 
Of  corn  and  lentils  smiling  in  the  sun. 
Ten  days  we  voyaged  through  that  placid  land, 
Until  we  came  to  shoals,  and  sent  a  boat 
Upstream  to  find,  —  what  I  already  knew,  — 
We  travelled  on  a  river,  not  a  strait. 

But  what  a  river!    God  has  never  poured 

A  stream  more  royal  through  a  land  more  rich. 

Even  now  I  see  it  flowing  in  my  dream, 

While  coming  ages  people  it  with  men 

Of  manhood  equal  to  the  river's  pride. 

I  see  the  wigwams  of  the  redmen  changed 

To  ample  houses,  and  the  tiny  plots 

Of  maize  and  green  tobacco  broadened  out 

To  prosperous  farms,  that  spread  o'er  hill  and 

dale 
The  many-coloured  mantle  of  their  crops; 


103 


I  see  the  terraced  vineyard  on  the  slope 
Where  now  the  fox-grape  loops  its  tangled  vine; 
And  cattle  feeding  where  the  red  deer  roam; 
And  wild-bees  gathered  into  busy  hives, 
To  store  the  silver  comb  with  golden  sweet; 
And  all  the  promised  land  begins  to  flow 
With  milk  and  honey.     Stately  manors  rise 
Along  the  banks,  and  castles  top  the  hills, 
And  little  villages  grow  populous  with  trade, 
Until  the  river  runs  as  proudly  as  the  Rhine,  — 
The    thread   that    links   a    hundred   towns    and 

towers ! 

And  looking  deeper  in  my  dream,  I  see 
A  mighty  city  covering  the  isle 
They  call  Manhattan,  equal  in  her  state 
To  all  the  older  capitals  of  earth,  — 
The  gateway  city  of  a  golden  world,  — 
A  city  girt  with  masts,  and  crowned  with  spires, 
And  swarming  with  a  host  of  busy  men, 
While  to  her  open  door  across  the  bay 
The  ships  of  all  the  nations  flock  like  doves. 
My  name  will  be  remembered  there,  for  men 
Will  say,  "  This  river  and  this  isle  were  found 
By  Henry  Hudson,  on  his  way  to  seek 
The  Northwest  Passage  into  Farthest  Inde." 


104 


Yes !   yes !    I  sought  it  then,  I  seek  it  still,  — 
My  great  adventure  and  my  guiding  star! 
For  look  ye,  friends,  our  voyage  is  not  done ; 
We  hold  by  hope  as  long  as  life  endures! 
Somewhere  among  these  floating  fields  of  ice, 
Somewhere  along  this  westward  widening  bay, 
Somewhere  beneath  this  luminous  northern  night, 
The  channel  opens  to  the  Orient,  — 
I  know  it,  —  and  some  day  a  little  ship 
Will  push  her  bowsprit  in,  and  battle  through ! 
And  why  not  ours,  —  to-morrow,  —  who  can  tell? 
The  lucky  chance  awaits  the  fearless  heart! 
These  are  the  longest  days  of  all  the  year; 
The  world  is  round  and  God  is  everywhere, 
And  while  our  shallop  floats  we  still  can  steer. 
So  point  her  up,  John  King,  nor'west  by  north. 
We  '11  keep  the  honour  of  a  certain  aim 
Amid  the  peril  of  uncertain  ways, 
And  sail  ahead,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 

Oberhofen,  July,  1909. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD  21A-50m-8,'61 


General  Library 
University  of  California 


